When the women of the fort led Deborah to her confinement, Willem was overwhelmed by the realization that he was about to become a father, and this had an unexpected effect: he wanted to recover his Bible so that he could record in it the fact of birth, as if by this action he could confirm the Van Doorn presence in Africa. Since he had a hut apart from the others, it would be safe to produce the book without being required to offer explanations as to how he had acquired it. So in the evening after his son was born he slipped along the beach till he came to that ancient cave, and when he was satisfied that no one was spying, he entered it to claim his Bible.
* * *
A few days later Commander van Riebeeck appeared at the vineyard, said nothing about the birth of the boy, but did ask for Willem’s assistance on a knotty problem: ‘It’s this Hottentot Jack. They tell me you know him.’
‘Jack!’ Willem cried with obvious affection. ‘Where is he?’
‘Where indeed?’ And the commander unraveled his version of duplicity, stolen cows, promises made but never kept, and suspected connivance with the dreadful Bushmen who had edged south, enticed by Compagnie sheep and cattle.
‘That doesn’t sound like my Jack,’ Willem protested.
‘The same. Nefarious.’
‘I’m sure I could talk with him …’
The complaints continued: ‘When we arrived in the bay, there he was, uniform of an English sailor, shoes and all.’
‘That’s Jack,’ Willem said.
The commander ignored him. ‘So we made arrangements with him. He to serve as our interpreter. We to give him metal tools and objects.’
‘He spoke English rather well, didn’t he?’
‘But he was like a ghost at twilight. Now here. Now gone. And absolutely no sense of property. Whatever he saw, he took.’
‘Surely he gave you cattle in return.’
‘That’s what I’m here about. He owes us many cattle and we cannot find him.’
‘I could find him.’
At this confident offer the commander placed the tips of his fingers together and brought them carefully to his lips. ‘Caution. We’ve had killings, you know.’
‘Our men shot the Hottentots?’ Willem asked in amazement.
‘There were provocations. It was this sort of thing Jack was supposed to—’
‘I’ll go to him,’ Willem said abruptly. So Van Riebeeck arranged for three trusted gunners to accompany him in an exploration of those villages which Jack and his people had occupied when the Haerlem wrecked, but Willem refused the gunners: ‘I said I’d go. Not with an army.’
That was the beginning of his difficulties with the Compagnie. Those in authority refused to believe that an unprotected Dutchman would dare to move inland, or survive if he did, but Willem was so confident that he could reach Jack and settle differences with him that he persisted. In the end he was ordered to accept the three gunners, and after strong protest which irritated everyone, he complied.
He had been right. When the Hottentots spied the armed men coming after them, they retreated into the farther hills, driving their sheep and cattle before them. In nine days of wandering, Van Doorn spoke with not a single Hottentot, so perforce he started homeward, but as the four men marched, one of the gunners said, ‘I think we’re being followed,’ and after extra precautions had been taken, it was agreed that some brown man—or men—was keeping to the mounds and trees, marking their progress.
‘It’s got to be Jack,’ Willem said, and when they came to those slight rises from which the Cape settlement could be seen—the point at which a prudent enemy would turn back—he told the three gunners, ‘I know it’s my friend. I’ll go to meet him.’
This occasioned loud protest, but he was adamant: ‘I’ll go without a gun, so that he can see it’s me, his friend.’ And off he went, holding his hands wide from his body and walking directly toward the small mound behind which he knew the watcher waited. ‘Jack!’ he called in English. ‘It’s me. Van Doorn.’
Nothing moved. If the person or persons behind the rise were enemies, he would soon see the flight of deadly assegais, but he was certain that if anyone had the courage to track four well-armed men, it must be Jack, so he called again, loudly enough for his voice to be heard at a far distance.
From behind the hill there came the soft sound of movement. Slowly, slowly, a human form emerged, that of a Hottentot, unarmed and wearing the uniform of an English sailor. For several moments the two men faced each other, saying nothing. Then Van Doorn dropped his empty hands and moved forward, and as he did so, little Jack began to run toward him, so that the old friends met in a forceful embrace.
They sat on a rock, and Willem asked, ‘How did these wrongs come to happen?’
It was too difficult to explain. On each side there had been promises unkept, threats that should never have been uttered, and petty misunderstandings that escalated into skirmishes. There had been killings; there would be more, and any possibility of reconciliation seemed lost.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Willem said. His affection for the slave girl Deborah had intensified his attitudes, making it easier for him to look at this Hottentot as an ally.
‘We talk too much,’ Jack said.
‘But we’re going to stay here, Jack. Forever. A few now, many later. Must we live always as enemies?’
‘Yes. You steal our cattle.’
‘They tell me you steal our tools. Our European sheep.’
The Hottentot knew that this countercharge was true, but he did not know how to justify it. Enmity had been allowed to fester and could not be exorcised. But one charge was so grave that Willem had to explore it: ‘Did you murder the white soldier?’
‘Bushmen,’ Jack said, and with his nimble fingers he indicated the three-part arrow.
‘Won’t you please come with me?’ Willem begged.
‘No.’
There was a painful farewell, the little brown man and the big white, and then the parting, but when the two men were well separated, with Van Doorn heading back to his gunners, one lifted his weapon and shot at Jack. He had anticipated such a probability, so as soon as he saw the gun raised, he jumped behind a mound and was not hit.
On a fine February morning in 1657 nine gunners and sailors assembled outside Van Riebeeck’s office, and all in the fort stopped work and moved closer to hear an announcement that would alter the history of Africa:
‘Their Honors in Amsterdam, the Lords XVII, wishing always to do what furthers the interests of the Compagnie, have graciously decided that you nine may take fields beyond Table Mountain and farm them under your own guidance, but you must not move farther than five miles from the fort.’
When the men cheered at this release from drudgery, Willem van Doorn heard the commotion and came in to listen with envy as Van Riebeeck spelled out the meticulous terms laid down by the Lords. The freedmen would work not individually but in two groups, one five, one four, and would receive in freehold as much land as they could plow, spade or otherwise prepare within three years. Their crops would be bought by the Compagnie at prices fixed by the Compagnie. They could fish the rivers, but only for their own tables. They were forbidden to buy cattle or sheep from the Hottentots; they must buy from the Compagnie, and one-tenth of their calves and lambs must be given back to the Compagnie. On and on the petty regulations went—and also the penalties: ‘If you break one rule, everything you own will be confiscated.’
The men nodded, and Van Riebeeck concluded: ‘Their Honors will allow you to sell any surplus vegetables to passing ships, but you may go aboard to do so only after said ships have been in harbor three days, because the Compagnie must have a chance to sell its produce first. You are forbidden to buy liquor from ships. And you must always remember that the Lords XVII are giving you this land not for your indulgence but in the hope that you will turn a profit for the Compagnie.’ Van Doorn, listening to the restrictions, muttered to himself, ‘He says they’re free, but the rules say they’re not fre
e.’
Van Riebeeck, wishing to solemnize this significant moment, and totally unaware that he had imposed any unreasonable restrictions, asked the men to bow their heads: ‘Under the watchful eye of God, you are now free burghers,’ and to sanctify this status he read from the Bible that glowing statement of God’s covenant which had excited Willem:
‘And I will give unto thee, and unto thy seed after thee, the land wherein thou art a stranger, all the land of Canaan, for an everlasting possession …’
With this benediction these nine became the first free white men in South Africa, the progenitors of whatever nation might subsequently develop. Suddenly the quiet was broken with cheers for the commander, after which the two groups set forth to line out their future farms.
One of the Hottentots had listened intently to this ceremony, and late that afternoon he crept off, taking a route past the fields the free burghers were surveying. At a small stream he stopped to watch as two antelope dipped toward the sparkling water; then he moved to break the news to his people: ‘They are taking our land.’
* * *
The joy with which the nine free burghers had greeted their release was short-lived, for during the first year of backbreaking effort they came to know the Compagnie’s interpretation of freedom. Two of the more adventurous, alarmed by their growing indebtedness to the Compagnie stores, began clandestine trading with the Hottentots for elephant tusks, rhino horns and ostrich feathers. For this they were severely disciplined, but Van Riebeeck did reluctantly agree that they might trade for cows, if they never paid more than the Compagnie did.
An argument arose over whether they might kill one of their own sheep for their personal use; the commander recognized this as a threat to the Compagnie’s butchery, but he did compromise: ‘You can slaughter one animal occasionally, but before you do so, you must pay a fee to the butchery.’
In the evenings, in their rude huts, the burghers grumbled, and sometimes Van Doorn would be present, for the things these men said he understood. No complaint was voiced more constantly than the one regarding labor.
‘Is this what freedom means?’ one farmer asked. ‘We’re peasants, working eight days a week.’
‘The Hottentots are better off than us,’ another said. ‘They have their herds and all that free land out there. We’re free … to be slaves.’
Relations with the Hottentots had deteriorated: few brought animals to be traded, almost none wanted to work for the burghers. Most kept their herds at the edge of the settlement, watching sullenly as the Dutchmen’s cattle encroached.
‘In Java no man would work like this,’ one stout burgher complained. ‘I think I’ll hide in the next ship and sail back to Holland.’
And that’s precisely what several of the free men did, so guards were posted about any vessel that put into Table Bay, and then one morning in 1658 the lookout atop the fort awakened everyone by hammering on a length of metal suspended from a post and shouting, ‘Warship coming!’
Apprehension gripped the tiny group of settlers; as far as they knew, Holland was still at war with England, and since this intruder might be carrying a landing party, a quick muster was called, and Van Riebeeck said, ‘We fight. We will never surrender Compagnie property.’ But as the men prepared their muskets the lookout cried, ‘Good news! It’s a Dutch ship!’ and all ran from the fort to greet the taut little craft.
Van Riebeeck was waiting when the ship’s boat drew alongside the jetty his men were constructing, and as soon as the captain jumped smartly ashore the good news was announced: ‘Off Angola we ran upon a Portuguese merchant ship headed for Brazil. Short fight. We captured her. A little gold, a little silver, but scores of fine slaves.’
Van Riebeeck could not believe the words; for years he had been imploring his superiors in Java for slaves to work at the Cape, and now the captain was saying, ‘We found two hundred and fifty on the Portuguese ship, but seventy-six died in our holds.’ Many of the others were seriously ill, and some were boys and girls, of whom Van Riebeeck complained, ‘They’ll be of little use for the next four or five years.’
‘Fetch the big one,’ the captain cried. ‘You’ll want him for yourself, Commander.’ Then, lowering his voice: ‘In exchange for extra beef?’
When the boat returned, there standing in the bow, shackled heavily, stood the first black from Africa that Willem and the other Dutchmen had ever seen; all previous slaves had been private acquisitions from Madagascar, India or Malaya.
This man must have come from a family of some importance in Angola, for he had what could only be called a noble bearing: tall, broad-shouldered, wide of face. He was the kind of young man a military leader promotes to lieutenant after three days in the field, and as soon as Van Riebeeck saw him he decided to give him an important assignment. He seemed destined to be the leader of the thousands of future slaves who would soon be joining the community.
‘What’s his name?’ he asked, and a sailor replied, ‘Jango.’ It was an improbable name, corrupted no doubt from some Angolan word of specific meaning, and Van Riebeeck said, in the Portuguese dialect used by all who worked in the eastern oceans, ‘Jango, come with me.’ And as the tall black, hefting his chains, followed the commander to the fort, Willem thought: How majestic he is! More powerful than two Malays or three Indians.
For the next few days Commander van Riebeeck was occupied with assigning tasks to his new slaves, reserving eleven of the best for the personal use of his wife, and with the arrival of blacks in force he judged that he had better tidy up the status of the slaves already at the Cape. So he summoned Willem to his quarters and asked, ‘Van Doorn, what are we going to do about this girl Deborah?’
‘Van Valck wants to marry his Malaccan girl. I want to marry Deborah.’
‘That would be most unwise.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re the brother of an important official in the Compagnie.’
‘She’s to have another child.’
‘Damn!’ The preoccupied little man strode back and forth. ‘Why can’t you worthless men control yourselves?’ He had brought his wife with him, and two nieces, so that he felt no lack of feminine companionship; he believed that men like Van Doorn and Van Valck should wait until suitable Dutch women arrived from Holland, and if this took nine or ten years, the men must be patient.
‘I’m thirty-three,’ Willem said. ‘And I feel I must marry now.’
‘And so you shall,’ Van Riebeeck said, whipping around to face his vintner. Reaching out his hands, he grasped Willem’s and said, ‘You’ll be married before the year’s out.’
‘Why not now?’ Van Doorn asked, and he saw Van Riebeeck stiffen.
‘You’re most difficult. You spoil everything.’ And from his desk he produced the copy of a letter he had sent some ten months before to the Lords XVII in Amsterdam, requesting them to find seven sturdy Dutch girls, no Catholics, and send them south on the next ship. Names of the intended husbands were given, and at the head of the list stood: ‘Willem van Doorn, aged thirty-two, born in Java, brother of Karel van Doorn of this Compagnie, reliable, good health, vintner of the Cape.’
‘So your wife is on her way,’ the commander said, adding lamely, ‘I would suppose.’
‘I’d rather marry Deborah,’ Willem said with that stolid frankness that characterized all he did. A more subtle man would have known that rejecting a woman the commander had taken pains to import, and for a slave, was bound to provoke him; it never occurred to Willem, and when Van Riebeeck pointed out that it would be highly offensive to any Dutch Christian woman to be sent so far and then discarded in favor of a Muslim slave, Willem said, ‘But I’m practically married to Deborah.’
Van Riebeeck rose stiffly, went to his window, and pointed down into the fortress yard. Willem, following his finger, saw nothing. ‘The horse,’ Van Riebeeck said.
‘I see no horse,’ Willem said in a tone calculated to irritate.
‘The wooden horse!’ Van Riebeeck shout
ed.
There it was, a wooden horse of a kind that carpenters use for sawing, except that its legs were so long that it stood much too high to be useful for woodworking. Willem had often heard of this cruel instrument, but it had not seemed a reality until this moment.
Clapping his hands, the commander instructed a servant: ‘Tell the captain to proceed.’ And from below a prisoner who had transgressed some trivial edict of the Compagnie was led toward the horse, where a bag of lead shot was attached to each ankle. He was then hoisted into the air, poised spread-legged above the horse, and dropped upon it. The fall of the man’s body, plus the weight of the lead shot dangling from his ankles, was so powerful that the body was almost broken in half, and he screamed terribly.
‘Let him stay there two days,’ Van Riebeeck told his orderly, and when the man was gone, he said to Willem, ‘That’s how we discipline workmen who disobey Compagnie orders. Willem, I’m ordering you to marry the girl I’ve sent for.’
Van Doorn was transfixed by the hideousness of the event, and that night when guards were asleep and he was supposed to be in his hut at the vineyard, he crept into the punishment area, gave the prisoner a drink of water, and lifted him slightly from the cruel wood, holding him in his arms through the hours. When the sun struck the man he fainted, and remained unconscious till nightfall. This night Van Doorn was kept from administering aid by a guard posted to watch the victim; as Willem stood in the shadows staring at the ugly horse, he understood why its legs were so high: they prevented the two bags of lead from resting on the ground.
Van Riebeeck spent some days pondering the problem of Willem and Deborah, and finally arrived at a solution that left Van Doorn aghast. The commander assigned Jango to the bed next to Deborah: ‘Day after day they’ll see each other, and I’ll have no further problems with Van Doorn.’
But he did. When guards were not looking, Willem slipped into the slave quarters below the grain store to sit with Deborah and Jango, and in broken Portuguese the three discussed their situation. Jango listened briefly, then said, ‘I understand. Your baby, when it comes. I care.’